In the End
by alleymap
Summary: A Boromir romance- a character that deserves some bloody happiness! Supposed to slot in with the events of LOTR, not take their place. Pg-13 for some action! Please r&r, this is my first fic... need reassurance! NOW COMPLETE.
1. Default Chapter

DISCLAIMER: None of the original characters or places belong to me, they are the works of a very talented man named Tolkien. I have taken some liberties with his characters and plot, and also from Peter Jackson's incredible film. These events do not effect the original story in any way (I hope) they are just for my own selfish pleasure. I love the character of Boromir, and wanted to give him some happiness, as there doesn't seem to be much for him in the book/film. This is also my first time showing any of my fanfic, so please be gentle with me! 

Reviews are welcomed, as are flames. And yes there is an element of Mary Sue about this, but nevermind. It can't be helped. 

The doors were as heavy as Boromir's heart as he pushed them open. The two armoured guards saluted him as he passed between them. Their hands touched the brooch that held their cloaks closed, shaped in the Tree of Gondor, and then to the pommel of their swords. It was an age old gesture of respect, and he returned the salute briefly, tapping his own clasp. He was impatient to get inside. 

Boromir's father, Denethor II, the Steward of Gondor, was standing in the centre of the great hall, staring up at the empty throne of Gondor, a troubled expression on his regal face. He was alone in the grey stone room, with its ornate beams, high ceiling and the arched windows that revealed the view across the carved city of Minas Tirith. 

Like his son, he was a proud man, with a face which was almost carved, so dignified it was, like the city he ruled over. But where his son was fair, he was dark, but both had the same grey eyes and the same proud features. Worry set the face of the elder man as grey as the stone of the city. 

Saluting him, Boromir greeted his father. "Father, I came as soon as I could."

"The honour of Gondor rests heavy upon my shoulders, and now I must pass some of that burden onto you, my Son,"

"Lord Mithrandir was sighted within the city walls. Has his tidings bearing on Gondor?"

"His tidings have bearings for all the race of men. Mordor is growing more powerful by the day."  Denethor laid a hand upon the shoulder of his son. "I have a mind to send forth an ambassador of Gondor to the lands west of here. Gondor shall need allies if Mordor strikes any closer. And they shall, the orcs grow bolder with every attack. We must face the reality that Gondor cannot hold them back alone". 

"I shall go," Boromir stood straighter, his eyes glancing to the empty throne that presided over the Great Hall, the emblem of the Tree and Seven Stars. It would not be the first time he had been sent to foreign lands in their honour.

"No!" Denethor's eyes blazed for a moment and Boromir was shocked by the anger there. But it was over in a second, and the dignity was restored. 

In a gentler tone, Denethor continued. "You have been away from your home too many times in recent years. And your home, your city needs you. You are a Captain of Gondor, and your sword shall be needed. I shall send your brother, Faramir. It will be good for him,"

"Faramir has duties elsewhere in Gondor," Boromir reminded his father. "It is my wish that you send me".

Denethor was silent, simply appraising his headstrong elder son. 

Boromir continued. "I feel that it is better if I go, that it is right that I go. I have had..."

He shook his head, as if not quite believing he was about to say his next words, "I have had a 'dream' that I must leave Minas Tirith"

He said the words lightly, but he saw a shadow pass over his father's face. 

"If you believe that you must, if you 'dream' that you must, then you must. I fear the darkness that is creeping over the land, Mordor has been a threat for too long, and Mithrandir believes that they will only get stronger. May you go in the name of Gondor, in honour, my son."

"And with you, father." 

They embraced briefly, and Boromir left his father to his thoughts. 

Boromir hurried through the palace, to his living quarters. He ignored the salutes and glances, his mind working frantically. It would be a long journey, following the Great River. He had no idea how long it would be how long he would be away from Minas Tirith. But he would have to leave within days. Reaching his main living area, he immediately saw the reason for his reluctance for leaving Gondor. 

His wife, Daya. 

Boromir had married the daughter of his father's advisor a year previously. A childhood playmate, he had grown to love the slim woman, with thick dark hair, creamy skin, dark flashing eyes, and full pink lips that were always quick to smile. As he entered the room, her head was already turning to him, a smile on her lips. 

Observing the correct ritual, she bowed her head and waited for him to speak, the only man she would do this for.

Silently he reached for her hands, and kissed each in turn, his thumb rubbing over the ring she wore, the symbol of their marriage. At his silence, her entire body tensed, and her head snapped up.

"You spoke with your father?" her low voice touched upon his heart, and he had to look away from her. The hero of Gondor and he could not meet his own wife's eyes. 

"I must leave Minas Tirith. For some time."

Daya moved to the window, the midnight blue velvet of her gown brushing across the flagstones. She raised a hand and lightly touched the one of the seven stars embossed on the silver circlet she wore around her head. 

"You seek assistance in the fight against Mordor?"

He nodded, and she sensed rather than saw the movement. 

"Rivendell" she said the single word slowly. 

"You feel it too?"

She had touched upon his thoughts, of the city of Elves that lay to the North West. Boromir was drawn there, despite the tension between the elves and men. He had already decided to travel there first. 

She sighed, as if resigned to the fact of his departure. 

"I fear that there is a darkness coming to Gondor, my husband. If it were my will and my will alone, I would have you by my side, so that we face that evil together, but it appears that we must part. Our paths shall take different routes from the one we have previously walked together."

Her voice had lowered, her eyes fixed on a point far in the east, no coincidence that she gazed in the direction of Mordor. 

Boromir felt the hair on the back of his neck rise; Daya's heritage was not completely of Gondor, her father a man of the frozen lands north of the misty mountains. His tribe had sought refuge in Gondor, led by Daya's grandfather, their chief, away from the troops of Mordor that had attacked them. In her lineage were many powerful and mystical figures and her gift for prophecy was known throughout Minas Tirith. Boromir knew that she did not always see clearly, perhaps the influence of her blood being diluted by her Gondorion mother, but she would sometimes see things that would occur before they happened. He had no doubt that this was one of those moments.

"What you speak of may yet come to pass, for the threat of Mordor is well known. As it is your will, it is mine, I would stay by your side, but honour and duty requires my absence from you. Fear not, you shall be protected within these walls, my father, and Faramir shall see that no harm shall come to you". 

He saw the scorn in her eyes, and he cursed himself for his patronizing words. Daya was almost as proficient with a blade as he was, raised in the manner of her people to be a sword woman, but denied the opportunity to be a warrior by Gondor's rigid tradition that no woman should carry a sword into battle. 

"Your words comfort me," and he could not tell from her tone if she was scornful or not. She spoke quietly, the formal language of a man and wife in public, but suddenly the formality broke and she ran to her husband like a girl, seeking his mouth with hers. 

"When do you leave?" her voice was breathless, her eyes searching.

"At dawn,"

"Then tonight is ours,"

Boromir could see his blond hair and beard reflected in the depths of her eyes, and suddenly he did not know himself. Like his wife, he also had a feeling of dread, and its origin was in the east. But he spoke not of it, he simply kissed his wife, and took her to their bed. 

The sun had cast the grey stone of the city a brilliant pink as it rose above the horizon. Rising from the warm depths of his bed, Boromir washed, and dressed, all the time looking across at the city that was his home. He was a leader of men, a figure of power, and he must leave on quest that he could see no end of. 

Daya entered the room, already up and dressed in the traditional purple silk of Gondor. She bowed to her husband, the rising sun catching the circlet she wore round her head, and he saw the single tear that rolled down her cheek. Taking her husband's vambraces she strapped them to his wrists, kissing the tree on each of them, reaching up to brush the hair from his face, taking in the greyness of his eyes, the proud nose, strong chin and neat beard, as if committing them to memory. The face softened as he returned her stare, he leant in close to kiss her lips, admiring her simple beauty. 

"When I return, we shall not be parted again," he whispered into her hair, holding her close against him. "We must look to the future," Daya smiled at him, but like his father on the previous day, he saw a shadow slide over her face, a sudden darkness that seemed at odds with her smile. 

"Yes, husband."

A cold icy hand gripped Boromir's heart. 

"What do you see for our future?" his hands suddenly clamped on her shoulders and she gasped in pain, at the strength in his hands. "Daya, you must speak to me, what do you see?"

She closed her eyes, unable to look at him. 

"You will face two evils... Mordor, and a personal evil. It has a power, and it will be difficult... But I do not see the end. I cannot see past the challenge, and I know not what the future holds for us, it is darkness..." her voice pitched higher, panic sounding in her frantic tones, she clasped at her husband, not wanting to let him go, "But our path is set, and I fear the pain that will befall us both."

Boromir stepped back, turning away from her in growing horror. 

"You recognise this fear?" she whispered.

"I did not want to trouble you with what I believed to be idle thoughts, but I must tell you now. I dream the same dream repeatedly, night after night. In this dream I see the eastern sky grow dark, but in the west a pale light lingers. A voice cries, "Your doom is at hand, Isildur's Bane is found!"

"Isildur's Bane?" she drew in a sharp breath. "The One Ring?"

She was learned in the old myths, as they all where, but they were myths, simply myths, there was no ring.

"Sauron is rising again."

"The Ring is a powerful enemy and a deadly friend. It calls even the strongest to its heart, and demands your obedience."

"You believe it exists?"

"You doubt its existence? Or fear it? For if the Ring exists, then the Heir of Isildur will return."

Boromir's temper, quick to rise, answered his wife.

"I would welcome the Heir of Isildur, if it meant that Men could once more be reunited."

"You would lose your position."

"I would serve my King, as I serve my father!"

She realised that she had pushed too far. 

"I apologise, my Lord. I do not mean to doubt your loyalty." She dropped into a curtsey, eyes lowered and he pulled her upright.

"You are my wife, Daya, daughter of Veradan. You understand the elements that form me, and my fears. I must leave now, but I will only pass beyond this city's walls, if I have your blessing."

Daya's heart was heavy, her face damp with tears. 

"Go with my blessing, Boromir, and with my love."

Husband and wife kissed a final time and so Boromir left the palace.

As he passed through the city gates, he glanced back at his home, for a final time. His eyes were instantly drawn to the ledge on the White Tower where he would pace when he was troubled. 

And she stood there, his wife, a hand raised towards him. Even at this distance he could see the tears on her face.


	2. A Cold night and A Chilling Dream

Rivendell was far behind them, a memory of peace and the harbinger of troubled times. The Fellowship had travelled far into the Mountains, where the air was thinner and it was harder to breathe. Boromir had tried to count the days and the nights, but had soon given up, disheartened by the way the cold days seemed to merge into the endless, even colder nights. He would shiver on the ground, his cloak bundled under his head for a pillow, and a rough blanket his only covering against the icy night, and wonder why he always felt such a sense of doom surrounding them. His dreams were sometimes troubled, and he would wake suddenly, and lie for hours listening to the breathing of his companions. 

He felt on the edge of the Fellowship, an intruder perhaps, the hobbits were all together, Aragorn and Gandalf were forever whispering together, even the dwarf and the elf seemed to be thawing slightly towards one and other. Gradually though the feelings were diminishing, and he realised he had a role to play within the group. 

The appearance of the One Ring at the Council of Elrond had unnerved him, for it

meant that Mordor was indeed strengthened and he feared for his country. Too long had Gondor held back Mordor unassisted, it seemed only right that they should take the Ring to Gondor and strike hard against the Enemy. He was sure that this was the only right course of action, and he had tried to convince Aragorn. The other Man was stubborn though, and too reliant on those damned Elves. Could he not see that his race needed him, the elves had long since protected their own interests, it was Men who would win this war? 

His rambling thoughts were interrupted by two contented Hobbits. Merry and Pippin had flung themselves on the ground, already drawing out food from their packs, making themselves as comfortable as possible on the hard ground. It was hard for the hobbits to travel, the men had longer strides, and it took two or three hobbit strides to match a man's. Aragorn had pronounced this area safe, so it appeared that they were resting here tonight. Gratefully, Boromir swung the heavy shield from his shoulders, running his hand over the centre embellishment as he placed it carefully on the ground. He sat beside it, his back resting against a rock, knees drawn up, and placed an arm over his eyes, to see if he could catch a few moments sleep while the sun still warmed him. 

It seemed that it wasn't to be, as he listened to the Hobbits bickering. He welcomed their company, liking their irrelevant manner to the quest, their idle banter soothing his troubled mind. 

"Well, its not quite the Green Dragon," Merry sniffed.

"But nowhere is," Pippin countered. He bit contentedly into a brilliant green apple. "Not without Rosie Cotton anyway"

"Rosie...always a smile and wink for a tired, hardworking hobbit."

"Well, that explains why she never winked at you then,"

"Maybe not, but she never winked at you either," a laugh, "It was always Sam she saved her smiles for"

Boromir gave a quiet chuckle at their dispute. Merry heard it, and turned to the tall warrior. 

"Well, what about you?"

"Me?" Boromir examined the edging on his shield, and seemingly found fault with it.

"Isn't there a place that you would rather be? Instead of stuck halfway up a mountain?" Pippin asked the question shyly, still in awe of the huge proud warrior.

Both hobbits waited eagerly for his answer.

"Anywhere where there isn't inquisitive hobbits" he half snarled, but the smile on his face, proved he was thawing. 

"We were going to share our supper with you, but we'll leave you in peace." Merry was a picture of wounded hobbit pride. 

Boromir grinned at their indignation, it was easy to speak to their gentle humour.

"My wife." His cheeks coloured as he spoke, "Anywhere she is, I would like to be." 

The hobbits were stunned into silence for a moment. 

"You have a wife?" Merry managed to form the words at last. "And you still came on this journey?"

He shook his head, as if he couldn't understand the madness of it all. 

And suddenly Boromir couldn't either. He bitterly regretted leaving Minas Tirith, but as usual his duty and pride had driven him to this. 

"If we do travel to Minas Tirith, you shall meet her."

 That moment couldn't come soon enough for Boromir. 

That night, as the icy wind cut through him to his bones, he dreamt of her. 

He lay not upon the hard ground, but within his bed, soft and warm, bathed in the white moonlight. His wife, slim and unclothed, lay in his arms, eyes closed, and lips parted, breathing steadily. He drew warmth from the heat of her body, and pulled her closer to him, brushing his lips against her brow. Her eyes, black in the moonlight opened, and she whispered his name. A slim arm swept around him, and she raised her mouth to his. He kissed her softly, wrapping her securely in his arms, but even as he kissed her, his mind was drifting, and he pulled away. The ring. The ring was calling him, and then he saw it, it lay on the sill of the window. The warmth of it was removed by the harsh moonlight, and it lay cold, and brilliant, waiting for him. He untangled himself from Daya and the blankets, and walked slowly to it, his hand outstretched, ready to take it for himself. The city of Minas Tirith lay below him, the White Tower silver in the night. The Ring was his, he would use it to defeat Mordor, and protect Gondor, Minas Tirith would be saved. His fingers were nearly brushing the chill metal.

"Boromir?"

"The Ring, Daya. The Ring. It will help me to save Gondor." 

His voice seemed very far away, and almost false.

"Boromir?"

He turned reluctantly away from the Ring. Daya stood there in the pale light, garbed in black trousers and doublet. Her hands were clasped to her stomach, and when she held them out they were red, coated with blood.

"Daya!" he cried out as she fell. 

The blood was dark on the black cloth and slick on the ground.

He was still crying out her name as he woke, sweat pouring off his skin, tangled hair sticking to his face, grey blue eyes searching the night without seeing, still within his dream, his wife, life seeping from her body, the light fading from her warm eyes.

As the image cleared he saw Pippin sitting up, half covered by his own blanket, watching him sleepy and bleary eyed.

"Hungry?" he asked.


	3. Of memories

A hobbit's mind was always on food. Within seconds he had found some leftovers, including the green apple that Boromir now rolled between his hands. He found himself opening up to a hobbit once more. 

"I dreamt of my wife," he muttered, "I fear that I shall not see her again."

Pippin said nothing, sensing the proud man's need to speak. 

However it appeared that it would not be tonight, as he was lost in thought. Pippin settled down and went back to sleep, the warrior still staring into the night. 

Daya had been a part of his life for as long as he could remember. It had begun years before, when he was a boy on the verge of manhood. She would be there, toddling around the city on unsteady legs, huge brown eyes watching him, following him as he walked through the palace. He paid little or no attention to her, nothing but a baby still, the daughter of his father's advisor. He would be annoyed with her, pushing her away or teasing her, hoping to make her go away. She would cry sometimes, but usually she just stayed calm, a stillness within her that had remained into adulthood. His brother Faramir had more sympathy for her; they had both lost their mothers young and now studied together under the watchful eyes of Daya's father. Boromir knew a little of her history, her grandfather Benalt had led his tribe south of the Misty Mountains when Sauron's forces had attacked them. Rhea, her grandmother, a warrior woman had been killed in the vicious onslaught, and it had been then that Benalt had led them south. Denethor's father had welcomed them, gave them refuge in the city, and they had fought against Mordor in Gondor's name. Young Veradan, son of Benalt, had learnt to wield a sword along side the young Denethor, and a friendship had formed between the young men under the watchful eyes of Auel, the weapon's master. Later when Denethor had become Steward of Gondor, he appointed Veradan his advisor. Both had married, Denethor, the beautiful Finduilas, Veradan, a woman of Gondor named Murasa. Finduilas had died, pining for the sea, while Murasa had given Veradan a single child, and died doing it. Daya had been raised by her father, who had almost rejected her at her birth, to be a woman of her tribe, proud, and fierce with a blade. Intelligent and quick like her father, she loved the city she grew up in, and trained under Auel, the man that had trained Denethor, her father, and both Boromir and Faramir. 

As soon as he reached manhood, Boromir had been sent out into Gondor and the lands beyond, to secure alliances that would hold in the dark times ahead. He was a brave captain, and on his return to Gondor he would be called to fight against Sauron's gathering masses. He had no need for young girls who thought they could be warriors. 

It was on one of his infrequent visits home that he went to see Auel, to ask his advice. He had taken a blade slash on his left arm, and was awkward on that side. He hoped that Auel could advise him, but when he saw Auel in the training room he was not alone. A young warrior was training with a long sword. 

"One, two, three, and four... You're too open, you need to close up on your left side," he was an aging man but was still as agile as he was when Boromir had been his student. 

He ran through the steps again and added a slight twist, bringing the sword up in sly undercut. The student sidestepped the blade, and brought their blade down in a resounding parry. It was a firm and neat movement, confidently done. Auel was a great believer in experience and in testing his students, throwing tricks at them at every opportunity. Boromir's first scar had come from Auel; he had mistimed a thrust and had been nicked by his teacher's blade. He paused to watch. The student wore a simple shift and trousers, dark hair tied back. They moved quickly, defending their head and face from the blows Auel aimed at them. 

"And again." Auel was relentless in his teaching. 

As the student swung their blade above their head, Boromir caught a flash of dark eyes that widened in recognition. Auel's blade met theirs, but the attention was lost, and the result was a bone jarring clash. Auel stepped away as the student massaged their wrist. 

He sighed. "You must concentrate. If you lose focus, you lose your life." Auel gave a grim smile, "I think that will end our lesson for today, I appear to have a visitor."

To Boromir's surprise, Auel embraced the young student, and he saw how small they were, at least half a foot smaller than him. He suddenly realised that the student was a woman, no, a girl, almost on the brink of womanhood. Her dark hair was twisted up into a knot at the base of her neck, her face pink and flushed. She glanced shyly in Boromir's direction giving a brief bow, and turned to leave.

"Has the situation in Gondor grown so bad, we must ask our women to defend it now?" 

Boromir spoke in jest, his face broken by a wide smile for his old teacher, but the older man paused and frowned at his comment. The young woman was still in earshot, and she paused, her back straightened and for a moment he thought she would turn to make some retort, but instead she stalked from the room with her head held high. Boromir had the grace to feel slightly ashamed that she had overheard. 

"If all warriors in Gondor fought like that young woman, we would have little 

trouble from Mordor."

Auel was not a man to give idle praise, but the pride was evident in his voice. "She reminds me of a warrior I once taught, reckless and pigheaded. I believe they made him a Captain... If I could only recall his name,"

Boromir laughed, "But not all the women of Gondor are learning to wield a sword?"

Auel gave a wry smile. "That was no ordinary woman of Gondor, that was the daughter of Veradan."

"Daya?" Boromir couldn't quite equate the girl that had followed him around as a child, with the reasonably skilled warrior he had just seen.

"In most Northern lands women are allowed to become warriors. Veradan requested that I train Daya in the art of her ancestors. She is an excellent swordswoman, on foot or horse... When she concentrates."

"But she is just a child."

"In a years time she will make her Appearance." Auel was referring to the ceremony that marked a girl's coming of age, the first time she dressed as a woman. "Veradan is very proud of her, and he has every right to be so."

Boromir was not present for Daya's Appearance; in fact it was four years before he saw her again. He had almost forgotten the day he had insulted her, but Daya had not. She had told him later that she had been angry and humiliated by his comments, but she had noticed him that day, and had hoped he would not be absent from Minas Tirith for long. 

He returned to Minas Tirith, older and perhaps a little wiser. He had immediately headed for the Great Hall, to greet his father. To his shock his father had aged dramatically in the time of his absence, and for the first time Boromir saw his father as a man of age. His father greeted him warmly, and bade him to sit on the chair next to his. It was then the doors had opened, and a woman had entered the room. She wore a heavy gown, but moved gracefully towards the two men, carrying a cushion that bore a small branch. The branch came from the Tree of Gondor and was used to welcome Gondor's sons back to the city. The woman knelt before him, holding out the branch for him to touch, and as he stretched out a hand, her eyes, a rich warm brown, had flickered upwards, and met his. He recognised her then. 

Daya, in his absence, had grown beautiful, or perhaps she had always been beautiful, and he was only seeing it for the first time. 

Her pale skin seemed translucent, and he thought it would be warm if he touched it. The light of the candles in the hall caught in the shine of her hair, she was confident and graceful, and he felt his heart beat faster as she caught his eye. The contact lasted for the briefest of seconds, it was against tradition that she should raise her eyes, it appeared to be an accident, but Boromir would think of that moment for many days to come. He could barely believe that this was the same girl he had mocked years previously, mocking her as he had done as a child, and pushing her aside, a child to his man. Boromir realised that she was no longer a child, but a woman, and he ached for her. 

At the feast, held that night in his honour, he watched her, distracted by her presence. He knew that Gondor prized their women, for they were beautiful and intelligent, but on that night, none could compare with Daya. She wore a robe of gold, and her hair tumbled to her shoulders. Boromir tried to eat, but could not focus on his food, for he was aware of her every movement, every time she turned to speak to the man on her right, he would burn with jealousy. He heard her laugh, and at the sound he lifted his head towards her, and caught her eye. 

For the briefest of moments they stared at each other, and then she ducked her head. 

When she glanced shyly back at him, he was still watching her, and she smiled at him, before looking away once more. For Boromir it felt as if the hall had vanished, and left them alone. He could not draw breath, so strong was his desire. 

Denethor had noticed the look past between his son and Daya, and he was not displeased by it. Daya's family was a proud one, a line of chieftains, and a joining between the two families would be a strong one. 

His father had found him the next day and they had spoken of her. 

"She is a beautiful woman, my son. Her father tells me that she is intelligent too, well versed in our history. She understands the nature of war, and is deadly with a sword. It would be a strong match..."

Denethor had paused, wanting to gauge his son's reaction. When he had not objected to the idea, Denethor had smiled, and left the matter there. Boromir understood that the marriage would be a political arrangement for his father, but he wanted Daya to love him, if they married, and to love her in return. 

It had been purely by accident that they had met for a second time. Boromir had gone to see Auel to discuss the training of the young soldiers, and had been persuaded to practice with his master as they spoke. Halfway through the routine, Daya had interrupted, and Auel, claiming his age was against him, had let Boromir partner her as she ran through the moves she knew so well. She was smooth and fluid, with a lethal speed that Auel was skilled in developing in the young warriors of Gondor. She seemed eager to prove herself, remembering his comments of years ago, but he could not be persuaded to fight back too hard, for fear of hurting her. In retaliation she lunged suddenly, and it took all his skill to block the blade with his own inches from his face. She had used both her hands, and was forced close to him, her weight behind the sword, and he pressed back. In a deadlock they had stood, and he had been close enough to kiss her, and he had wanted to, but suddenly she laughed and stepped away, sheathing her thin blade. 

"You fight well," his words came out thickly, "As well as any warrior."

He smiled at her, a light sheen of perspiration dotted her brow, and she seemed to have enjoyed the brief combat. 

"Thank you, Lord" she was surprised at his praise, but took it as one who knew they were skilled would.

"Lord? So you do remember me."

 It was rare that anyone used his title, but she was aware of it and used it accordingly.

"How could I forget Lord Boromir? The Great Boromir?" she teased him, hiding shyly behind her hair. "You locked me in the battlements for eight hours when I was five. But perhaps I should ask if you remember me?"

He coloured, recalling the incident of which she spoke. He had promised to take her to see the elves, and instead locked her in a small damp room in the wall of the battlements. It had only been Faramir risking his brother's wrath that had led to her being found. 

"I did not treat you kindly, Daya, daughter of Veradan."

To his relief she smiled again.

"We were children. I did not care then, and I do not care now. When you mocked me, it meant that you noticed me," Daya had flushed then, and turned her head away. 

"You would have me notice you?" He asked her. He could see the effort it took for her to look at him.

"I would always have you notice me, Lord Boromir."

She had left the room then, and Boromir had loved her for her confession. It heartened him that she might return any feeling that he had for her, she was like a dream, and he was lost in her, but for some reason their paths did not cross again for many days. 

Boromir would catch sight if a dark haired woman, walking ahead of him in the palace, or standing on the battlements, and he would catch his breath, his heart leaping in the hope that it might be her. Denethor was pleased by the development of the relationship, but had not tried to influence his beloved elder son in anyway, letting it progress naturally. 

The warrior was falling in love, seeing beauty everywhere, because of the young woman. He felt as if he was surrounded by her, and discovering to his surprise that a romantic heart did beat somewhere inside him. Finally, summoning his courage, he asked a soldier to deliver a message to her, to arrange a meeting. He had waited for her, in the White Tower, pacing along the small balcony that looked out across the city. The sun had been setting, and his heart beating so loudly he had feared it would drown out his words when he spoke. Then she had arrived. 

Dressed in a deep red, she had waited for him to speak, bowing her head slightly. He had seen the way the fingers of her left hand played with the folds of her heavy skirt, betraying her nervousness. 

"Daya, daughter of Veradan, I ask forgiveness for my behaviour."

"Son of Denethor, you need not ask for my forgiveness, for nothing you have done warrants it."

"I have been remiss in not seeking your company sooner."

"You have it now."

"Yes," it was difficult to speak, "Do you, do you think of the future?"

"Sometimes. I dream of it. The same dream for many years now."

"Would you tell it to me?"

"I dare not. For if you laughed, my dream would be destroyed."

"Will you not trust me? If on my oath, I swear not to laugh or ridicule."

She paused as if an inner struggle was taking place somewhere inside her. When she finally spoke her voice was barely above a whisper.

"I feel that I am destined for something. A higher fate carves out my future. For many years now, my destiny has been visible to me, and has walked closely to me. He is a Man, of pride, and of dignity. A man of strength and honour, and I dream that I will walk near him, on the path that life takes. It may be the same path that we walk together, or one that runs in parallel to his. My destiny and fate is entwined with his."

For a moment Boromir had remained silent, and with his blood pulsing in his veins, torn between jealousy and hope, he had asked who this man was. It took vast amounts of courage for her to answer. 

"It is you, Boromir. You and no other. I have known you since I was a child, and loved you since before I understood what the feeling was. Since we last met I have thought of little but you, and your return to Minas Tirith has been all that I have desired for four years. That you might return and..."

She had fallen silent suddenly, as if she thought she had said too much. 

"And?" He had pressed, elated by what he was hearing.

"I hoped that you might find me worthy, Lord Boromir."

 He could see she was trembling, and had kissed her then, drawing her into his arms, and planting his mouth firmly on hers, feeling her tense, and then relax into his embrace.

After that first kiss there had been many more, and when the opportunity arose, they would meet in some private place, even for the briefest of moments. Finally Boromir had gone to his father and announced his intent to marry Veradan's daughter.


	4. A Betrothal

It was on the night of their betrothal that she first came to him. Boromir was alone in his room, a room sparsely furnished, a large, ornately carved bed, and two large windows overlooking the city to the West. Night had long since drawn in, the moon was beginning to descend and the Great Hunter looked down at the city.

Boromir was pleased with how the evening had gone, the ancient ceremony had gone smoothly. Daya had presented him with three symbols, a bridle, made of new leather to symbolize her obedience to her future husband, a cloak, to symbolize her duty to care for him, and a garland of fresh flowers, her willingness to be fertile for him. It was a ceremony as ancient as the city, and these were the traditional gifts of a woman being betrothed. However their high rank had made the ceremony even more complex. As a signal of Boromir's position she gave him an ornate brooch, detailing the Tree of Gondor, and also to Denethor, her future father in marriage. She gave these gifts, as a sign of her loyalty to them, but her own position insisted that they make a gift to her, in honour of her family. Boromir had placed around her head a silver circlet, engraved with seven stars, he admired the contrast of the cool metal to her dark hair. 

The final act was unusual, and usually reserved for a warrior, but Daya as a skilled warrior picked up a heavy ornamental sword, kissed its jewelled hilt, and placed it at the feet of Denethor. 

"My sword is yours. I shall defend this family and its honour while there is still life in this body. I swear this as a Warrior of Gondor" she paused, and then in deference to Denethor's Stewardship. "My sword is yours. I shall defend Gondor and its honour while there is still life in this body. I swear this as a Warrior of Gondor."

There was one simple formality to complete, the joining of the hands and the declaration that these people were betrothed. The ceremony was over and the feast began.

It was therefore very late when Boromir finally made it to his chamber. A torch illuminated the room, casting shadows on the walls as he removed his cloak, and weapons. Reaching for the clasp of his high collar he snapped it undone. 

There was a knock on the door and Boromir froze. No one would disturb him at this late hour, and it was on this thought that his hand reached for the small dagger that lay on the plinth.

"Enter" he had called. 

The heavy door had creaked open slowly, and to his surprise Daya had entered. She slid the door firmly into place and leaned against it. She had changed from the heavy traditional robes of earlier to a grey blue layered chiffon dress, held up on one shoulder by a silver clip. Her other shoulder and her arms were bare, as were her feet. Her skin was smooth and creamy, and she still wore the circlet he had given her earlier in her hair. It was the only adornment she wore.

He had heard that this sometimes happened; a woman would come to her future husband's chamber early, and not wait for their wedding night. It had not been forefront in his mind, their kisses had been passionate, but privacy difficult to come by. But now, alone, here in his chamber, her intent was clear. 

In the laws of Gondor, a man and woman should not share a sleeping chamber, or a bed until a marriage ceremony had taken place, but as long as a couple was discreet... well theirs was probably not the only liaison taking place this night. 

Daya was still pressed against the door, and Boromir stared at her, taking in every detail that he could of her. Her breathing was shallow and quick, as if she had run here, and her dress rippled with every movement she made. It was sheerer than he first thought, and his own breathing quickened as he thought he saw the outline of her slim body. His body stirred and desire grew within him. He had not lain with a woman for months now, a brief affair with a woman during his last absence had been his last romance, but she had not excited him as Daya did. There was no nervousness between them, he paused only to admire the woman that would be, in a month's time, his wife. 

As he stared at her, she had been watching him, taking in his height and build; suddenly her eyes had flickered to his left. He turned to follow her gaze and he saw the bed there. He turned back to her, and a hint of a smile played about his lips. She took a step forward and picked up the cup of water that sat beside his neatly folded cloak. She handed it to him, and he sipped, finding his mouth was dry; he never took his eyes from hers. She was so close to him, he could feel the heat radiating from her body, and he noted that when she took the cup back from him, she turned it so that she placed her lips deliberately where his had been. It was a provocative gesture, and the cool water left a trace on her lips. It had teased him, he stepped forward, opening his arms to her, and she stepped lightly into them, pressing the length of her body against his, their lips meeting in a burning kiss. She was so much smaller than him, she had to rise herself on tiptoes to press her lips harder against his, and he pulled her closer, almost lifting her into the air. He could feel her body through the thin material of her dress, so unlike the heavy robes that hid the shape of her curves, and his hands had roamed across her shoulders, tracing his hands the length of her spine, dropping a kiss onto her smooth skin, trailing his lips up the heat of her throat, feeling the blood pulsing there, rapid with desire. 

Unable to resist anymore, she reached for the clasps of his tunic, and gently but surely snapped them undone. His tunic came away, and he stood bare chested in front of her, wearing only the thick trousers that protected his legs in combat. She stroked the hard muscle of his chest, toned by hours of training, and of years of war. Her small hand was as light as air; she teased him, her hand trailing to his stomach, to entwine in the line of coarse dark hair she found there. Her lips were curved in a smile, her eyes dark with desire as she placed his hand over his heart. Suddenly he grasped her hand, and held it there, pressing it against his chest so she could feel his heart beat, racing with his own passion for her. 

"My heart belongs to you. You and no other. While it still beats, I shall desire nothing but you. Nothing."

She smiled up at him, and whispered her reply, "And I, you."

Again, overwhelmed by the strength of his love for her, he drew her into his embrace. 

Laying her on his bed, he was pleased that she did not fear his touch, but rather invited it, caressing him in return, never shying away from him. Her dress was tied simply and undoing the clip, he pulled the material away from her, and she was naked before him. Her body was both hard and soft at once, muscled by the exercises she took, but soft, with smooth skin, high pert breasts, and strong thighs, soft as silk. She helped him from his trousers, her hand already reaching for him, and he trembled as she touched him. Gently she pushed him down, until he lay on his back, and her hair brushed his stomach as her warm mouth enveloped him. Eventually he pulled her away, his mouth seeking her throat, his fingers trailing over her breasts, along her stomach until she parted her legs willingly for him. He found the place he was looking for, and she moaned, her breath already coming quicker, and he touched her, listening to her sighs, and little gasps of pleasure until she cried out his name, pulling him closer and closer to her, and he was inside her, her legs wrapped around his back, and he forgot his gentleness, as she kissed him fiercely, and he was lost in her and all the sensations he was feeling. 

They made love until the sky began to lighten. Daya saw the light coming, and reluctantly untangled herself from him. As she clambered over him, he pulled her back down to him, their lips meeting, his hand already sliding up her thighs, until she pulled away with a small groan. She dressed quickly and picked up her circlet from where it had fallen and was gone, as silently as she had arrived. 

Exhausted, Boromir had fallen into a deep sleep. 

He had only slept for an hour before he was woken by the first bell of the morning. Breakfast had been taken in the same hall as the night before, and Denethor had taken in the silence of his son, the dark circles under his eyes, the hand constantly rising to his mouth to smother a yawn. It took several attempts to gain his attention, and once caught, it was easily lost. Denethor glanced down the hall to Veradan's daughter, his future daughter by marriage, and saw the same dark circles bruising her eyes, her swollen lips trying to hold back her own yawn. Yet she glowed with an inner light, despite the tiredness. He caught Veradan's eye and nodded in the direction of his daughter. It was apparent that Veradan had also noticed the lethargy of the young couple. A small smile and a nod were returned. Denethor suppressed his own smile, and laid a hand on his surprised son's shoulder. It was good if they were already bedded, Gondor would need heirs. Denethor was pleased by how well the situation was. All was good for Gondor. 

That night, and every night, soon after Boromir had retired for the evening, a small knock would sound on his door, and Daya would return to his chamber. They would make love, sleep, and wake already reaching for each other, then sleep again. But as dawn broke, Daya would rise, and slip away, back to her own chamber. For Boromir the days were a tedious mix of council meetings, training and formalities, all designed to break the couple apart, and he would wish the sun away, and hope that night would soon appear, her presence marked by the moon. He would feign tiredness, pretending not to see the knowing looks of his father, and wait for Daya and her love to return to him. 

Boromir had thought, that like many of his ancestors, he would be a man that would shun marriage, preferring instead the joy of battle, and seeking pleasure from battle alone. Instead with great ceremony he wedded Daya, and took her to be his wife. 

Daya wore robes of the purest white, her arms bare, and the material fine and layered, disturbingly reminiscent of the gown she had worn to his chamber that first night. His own robes were even heavier than usual, uncomfortable and stifling, as he watched her enter the hall, proud with all the dignity of her forefathers. Her circlet was bright against the darkness of her hair, her eyes dark, her lips were as pink as a rose, her steps light and controlled. As he watched her walk towards him he forgot all discomfort. He barely heard the words spoken over his head as he watched her, but finally with a delicate piece of thread, their wrists were bound together. They would remain joined like this for the feast, to symbolize their union, but later the thread would be cut, and a half tied as a necklace around each of their throats, for the period of their confinement. The couple were left alone in their private living area for a fortnight, in the hopes that children would be born within the year. It was a tradition that Boromir had previously deemed pointless, that removed soldiers from their duty, but as Daya was declared his wife, he was eager to be alone with her at last, to fall asleep with her, and not to be left at dawn. Earlier that day Daya's possessions had been brought to his chamber, where they would live, and begin their new life together.

At last they were married and could be together. Their confinement was a happy time for them, and Boromir smiled at the memory of it. They would forget to eat, and would suddenly be ravenous, or they would dream about the future, with peace in Gondor, and the number of children they would have. It was as if destiny had declared that there was no other person they could be with. Destiny decreed that Boromir and Daya would meet, and eventually marry. But now, feeling alone on a mountain, in the cold night air, Boromir thought of his wife, and he ached for her.

"Daya." he whispered, just to hear her name out loud. It was difficult to get comfortable on the cold, hard ground, but he managed as best as he could, and dreamt once more of her. This time though he saw them surrounded by both dark and blonde haired children.

A distance away, but still under the same moon, Daya shifted in the bed she usually shared with Boromir, but in which she had slept alone for so many months now. She heard a whisper in her dream, and replied "Boromir." She settled farther into sleep.


	5. The End of the Fellowship

As Galadriel was questioning her husband and the rest of the Fellowship, Daya met with Faramir, on the battlements over the seventh gate. More open than his proud, stern, brother, they had been close since their childhood, and relaxed in each other's company. The sun was setting as they walked, and in the distance Mordor loomed. 

"Have you heard any news?" Faramir asked.

"None," she sighed. "There has been no messenger from the West for some time now. Even the Rohan scouts have been absent from our lands."

"They say that Mordor is building an army."

His tone was bleak, and she turned sharply to him. "You do not plan to venture into Mordor?"

He shrugged. "They grow bold, and the attacks are more frequent. Some believe that they will launch a large attack soon. We must gain whatever knowledge we can. We can only defeat them through knowledge of their plans."

"And your father wants you to gather that knowledge?" she glanced at him, and knew that she had guessed accurately. He noticed her look and laughed.

"I'm expendable in this war, unlike Boromir. Our father still believes that he will return to lead us to victory. I, on the other hand, am to leave to travel to Mordor with my scouts tomorrow."

"I just want Boromir to return." She embraced him warmly, "Come back safely."

"I will, Lady, I will. As my brother will."

They continued walking in companionable silence, and Faramir did not notice the dark look that had slipped onto Daya's face. They had heard no news yet, but it was coming. 

***********

Everything came down to the Ring. In the end, it had been the Ring. The Ring would destroy everything, and it had begun with Gandalf, it would destroy him, until it had destroyed all of the Fellowship, all of Middle Earth.

Galadriel had seen the weakness in him. When she had looked deep into his soul, reading his thoughts, speaking to him in his mind, she had seen it. As he had met her blue eyes, he had seen his wife, a cascade of images into his mind, Daya, as he had known her as a child, the day he had first kissed her, and the night she had first come to his bed. Their wedding day and the tear she had shed at their parting. You could have all of this back, the she elf offered him, all of this, turn away now, and return to Gondor, return to your wife. The voice had echoed in his mind, drowning out all other thoughts, but gradually, the Ring had grown to prominence within his troubled musings and the enchantress had seen it there, recognized the desire he had for the ring, and had soothed him. We all desire the Ring, she seemed to be telling him, we just need to find the strength to refuse it. 

He hadn't though. The Ring had driven him to attack Frodo, to destroy the Fellowship. He had tried to disguise the desire he felt for the Ring under a façade, wanting the Ring not for himself, and the power it would bring him, but for good, for the good of all mankind and Middle Earth. But Frodo had escaped, and now the Ring was far from him, he felt nothing but remorse and shame. He had not wanted to attack Frodo, and he realized how horrible it had been for the hobbit, to see the man who had sworn to protect him suddenly be brought under the power of the Ring, to be driven to attack one of his oath sworn. 

A cry had come from the West, and shouting, Hobbit voices. The others still needed him; he could redeem himself for the attack against Frodo by protecting the others, Merry and Pippin. Drawing out the Horn of Gondor he placed it to his lips, it might be too late for any man to come, but they would come. Gondor did not leave their sons to fight alone.

The first arrow had taken him high in his chest, the pain searing and hot, each breath bringing fresh agony. Lurtz, horrific and evil, merely smiled terribly, and fired a second time as Boromir still fought on. He was weakening with every movement, feeling the foreign objects lodged deep in his flesh, taking as many Urak Hai as he could, still he raised his blade, even as the blackness threatened. Finally he dropped to his knees, each breath drew fresh pain, and Lurtz stood before him, bow raised, arrow drawn back, the sharp tip aimed directly at his throat. The moment of his death had come, almost instantly would he be plunged into blackness as the arrow would tear into the soft flesh of his throat, tearing his jugular, and he would die. An arrow pierced his lung, another in his side, the third in his stomach. He was dying, but death would be speeded by the fourth and final arrow. The terrible figure blurred in front of him, as he thought of Daya. He would never see her again, never return to her as he had promised, never watch her as she slept, and wondering at the contrast between her pale skin and dark hair. He thought again of their wedding day, Daya in white and silver, reciting the age-old passages, pledging herself to him. The private thoughts of a man for his wife, of passion, and desire in the light of the moon, whispered vows and sighs of pleasure. And still he waited for death, for the final arrow.

It never came. Aragorn, Heir of Isildur, came instead, and a bitter fight ensued. Boromir tried to focus, to stand, to assist his friend, but his mind was slipping in and out of blackness. He had crawled to the roots of tree, and collapsed, feeling his life slip away. And then Aragorn was kneeling in front of him, Lurtz sent to his death before his prey. 

Feeling the blackness once more descend, like a fog surrounding him, Boromir grasped Aragorn's wrist.

"The Little Ones, they took them," he struggled to say the words, the arrow burning in his lung.

The reassurance he needed came, but Boromir was fading. He stared up at the man who had become his friend, and wondered why he had not seen it before, or if he had seen it, why had he denied it? This man was the Heir of Isildur, and he was worthy of that title. There was still a chance for Middle Earth while this man lived, and he knew it now. His hand groped for his sword, no warrior of Gondor would die without his sword in his hand, and then stared into the other man's eyes. 

"My brother," he gasped, "My Captain, My King,"

Aragorn could see the pain in his eyes, and knew that the final moments had arrived. He leaned forward and kissed Boromir's brow, as he leaned back he saw a smile on the proud man's features. His final breath was a sigh, "Daya", and he was gone.

The Captain of Gondor was dead.

Daya entered the Great Hall of Minas Tirith, through the huge stone doors that were opened by the guards who saluted her. Her thick grey robes trailed behind her, her hands folded within her sleeves, a heavy chain around her throat. She walked with all the dignity of her rank. Pausing before the stone steps she inclined her head to the empty throne that lay in wait for the King of Gondor to return, and then walked to Denethor, her Steward. She knelt before him, and kissed the hand that was extended to her. The hand bore a ring in the shape of the Tree of Gondor; there was no escaping the symbol of the country she lived in, the country for which her husband fought. 

Denethor whispered to her as she knelt. "The absence of my son shows heavily on your face,"

"And my heart, Lord."

His hand directed her to a carved seat, next to the empty one of Boromir's. As she walked, her steps slowed, and she stopped. Her breathing became faint, the blood drained from her face. 

"The Little Ones", she gasped, not knowing where the sentence came from. 

Denethor, noticing her pallor half rose.

"Assist her!" he cried, knowing of her power of foresight. A soldier helped to support her, her breathing was ragged, and each breath seemed to cause her pain. There was a terrible pain in her chest, her side, and her stomach, but the heaviness in her heart hurt her more. Somewhere, from very far away, she heard Boromir cry out her name.

'Boromir!' she screamed in reply. As her voice died away, the room stood in stunned silence, shaken to the core by the strange display. Daya fainted.


	6. Minas Tirith

Veradan approached the doors of the Great Hall with trepidation. It was the same journey as he made every day, to see his master, and friend, but today, he wished it were not he who had to break this news. 

Denethor stood at one of the arched windows, watching the city below him, shrouded in mist, a light rain falling upon his subjects as they went about their duties. On the battlements, and at the guard posts, the soldiers huddled into their cloaks as the cold bit into them. It had been a long winter, and a bitter one. 

"It is a foul day, my friend," Denethor greeted Veradan without looking away from the window.

"Lord," Veradan hesitated, words failing him.

"How fares your daughter, Veradan?"

Concern for his only child distracted him from his pressing news. "She does not eat, she does not sleep, and she barely speaks." For days now she had barely left her chambers, and he sensed her heart was heavy, but she would not speak of her grief. Not even to him, her father. 

Denethor sighed, and leaned against the window arch. "Has she no hope for my son?"

Veradan knew that Denethor was asking whether his daughter had seen a vision, or dreamt of her husband, but if she had, she had not told him. Instead he held forth the fragments of the object he held in his hand.

"There is no hope, Lord."

Denethor turned and saw that his advisor held the two shattered pieces of the Horn of Gondor. He closed his eyes in pain. 

Daya lay on the bed that she had shared with Boromir. Her fingers idly traced the pattern of the heavy blanket, but she did not see it. She saw nothing. For days now she had tried to empty her mind, to 'see,' to look beyond the confines of the city, to search for her husband. But she had no control over her gift, she could not command it, and now it had left her at the moment she had needed it most.

She sat up suddenly, her hands gripping the edge of the bed in anger.

"It is not a gift.... It is a curse!"

Tears came to her eyes, at her frustration, her inability to do anything that might help Boromir, but she forced them away, she was not a woman who would cry lightly. Iorweth, the healing woman had come to her chambers many times in the past days, and she had remarked on her patient's lack of tears. It wasn't natural, the woman had commented, for a woman not to cry. Daya had sent her away, finding her idle prattle irritating, and pointless. She wanted nothing more than to head to the stables, find a horse, and ride out into the lands, to search for Boromir. 

Her father, having anticipated this desire had ordered guards to surround the stable, and when she had tentatively approached them, they had refused her entry. The young soldier, Heren, she had known since they were young playmates, and he had been apologetic, but steadfast in his obedience. 

The sound of horses came from outside the palace walls. She hurried to her window, and peered down the seven levels of the city to the main gate. A single horseman approached, and was given entry to the city. There was no denying the importance of this figure, and Daya knew that she had to get to the Great Hall. The rider brought the news that she had been waiting for so many months now. 

As Denethor stared in growing horror at the significance of the broken horn, the door to the Great Hall had flown open. Daya had stridden determinedly in, and approached the two men. There was no need for formalities that day, she did not kneel or salute the men, just stared, like Denethor in horror at the horn.

The guards, assigned to watch the young woman, had finally caught up with her, and they now stood behind her, they saw the horn and realised its significance, and the grief they felt was etched on their faces. 

"Go!" Veradan commanded the guards, and they fled no doubt to spread the news of the return of the Horn, without its rightful owner. Denethor looked ready to collapse at the sight of it, but Daya, past her initial reaction of horror, was showing no emotion. She just stared at it, her face blank, her eyes dark, and it was this emptiness that scared Veradan. He wanted to comfort her, but knew that he could not do so in front of Denethor. 

"It is as we had feared," Denethor muttered.

"So it seems, Lord." Veradan's voice was level with a calmness he did not feel.

He had admired the Captain of Gondor, and loved him as his own son. But his daughter would feel the loss far more than him.

Denethor stepped forward and removed the horn from his advisor's hands. Daya had looked as if she would protest at this action, but stopped herself just in time. She bowed her head to her lord, and to her father, and walked from the hall. 

She was alone. 

Denethor had taken the horn from his advisor and now sat upon his throne. He did not move, he did not speak, he just stared at the pieces he held in his hands. 

Veradan paced inside the hall, feeling as if the weight of Gondor had come to rest on his shoulders. He ordered the guards to their duties, he tried to answer their questions, and give some relief to the confusion that showed upon their faces. A gloom had settled over the city, heightened by the violent thunderstorm that now raged overhead. Finally he approached Denethor's throne.

"Lord?" the Steward did not reply, or show any inclination that he had heard. "Lord? The Lord Faramir. We must inform him of his brother's.... We must send him word."

Veradan had about to say his brother's death, but they did not know for sure that Boromir had passed into the afterlife. He knew that Denethor clung to the hope that his elder son still lived, but Daya had shut herself away, and that was more telling than any message. If Daya did not believe that her husband lived, then.... Veradan sighed, and once more started to ask the question.

'I heard you, Veradan." Veradan was shocked by the coldness in his Lord's voice. "A messenger shall be sent to find Faramir and inform him of the discovery of the horn. The messenger shall also inform Faramir that he is not to return to Minas Tirith until his duties are complete."

Once more Veradan was shocked, and disturbed by his Lord's lack of sympathy towards his younger son. He had made no secret that he preferred his elder son, but it had not effected the relationship between the two brothers. They were as close as brothers could be, and Veradan could only imagine how deep Faramir's grief would run. He excused himself, and left to find a messenger, and to check on his daughter.

The messenger had been sent, leaving to travel dangerously close to the border with Mordor, but Veradan had chosen wisely, a brave man that had known Faramir. He was sure that Jorand would find Faramir and impart the news carefully. 

Veradan walked slowly through the palace, to his daughter's chambers. 

They were empty. And in disarray. His daughter was nowhere to be seen.

A feeling of dread settled onto Veradan. 

Daya was gone.


	7. A Battle

Aragorn stared across the plains of Rohirrim and felt despair blanket him. He understood Theoden's reasoning that it would be easier to protect the people from Helm's Deep, but they were trapped within the huge stone walls. Legolas was right, 300 against 10,000 trained killers wasn't a battle, it was suicide. It was a lost cause. Helm's Deep would be lost within days. Slaughter would come to the innocent, and Aragorn, supposed to be their king, could not prevent it. He walked along the wall, aware that the army he had seen earlier in the day would march across the hill and annihilate them. 

He continued pacing along the wall, and his mind was filled with troubles. If the battle was won, and Mordor defeated then Aragorn would claim his rightful place as the Heir of Isildur. But today, when he had ridden, bruised and sore, to Helm's Deep and he had seen the army of Isengard marching through Rohan, he had wished that he could have ridden away. The Fellowship was broken, two Hobbits captured by the enemy, the other two heading straight into Mordor, and a friend had died. He touched the jewel that Arwen had given him. He thought of her, of lost friends, and of lost hopes. The battle would take place tonight, and whether they were victorious, or defeated, lives would be lost.

Gimli stood and watched his friend, feeling unable to prevent the despair that he felt. Legolas sat near by perfecting the finish on his arrows. He was angry with Aragorn, and Gimli thought he knew why. The elf was contemplating his own mortality, he was 3000 years old, and immortal, but could still fall in battle. The elf was considering the fact that he might not live to see tomorrow. Gimli felt the same fear, but he would fight. He worried more that his axe might not taste orc flesh before he was felled. If Gimli had to die, he would take many orcs with him. Legolas had first experienced grief with Gandalf, but Gandalf had returned. Boromir was a Man though, and Gimli knew that the man's death had been difficult for Legolas to comprehend. Boromir would not return to the Fellowship, and 300 men, unskilled warriors, would take on an army of 10,000. 

Théoden walked onto the wall. He saw Aragorn walking alone, and went to join the younger man. He started to address him, but his eyes slipped past the ranger, and looked into the distance.

"Surely, it does not start already?"

A small dust cloud had formed on the horizon, a single rider on horseback appeared over the crest of the hill, the same hill that Aragorn himself had ridden over earlier in the day.

"Legolas!" Aragorn cried to the elf, "We have need of your eyes."

Legolas and Gimli came to stand on the edge of the wall, staring out across the plains. 

"It is a Man..." he waited for a second, until he was sure, "A warrior, a Gondorion warrior."

"Gondorion?" Aragorn was puzzled, "Gondor would not fight for Rohan, they have their own troubles with Mordor on their borders."

"Could it be...?" The thought had flickered into all three minds at once, but Gimli was the only one who would voice it. Stranger things had happened on this quest, Gandalf for one...

"A Gondorion warrior," Legolas confirmed, "But not..." the sentence did not need to be completed. 

"Open the gates!" Aragorn commanded. "That is no enemy that approaches."

Théoden grasped Aragorn's arm. "We cannot open the gates. How do we know this is not one of Saruman's deceptions, sent to trick us?"

Aragorn shook off the older man's hand. "The Army of Isengard approaches, with 10,000 Urak-Hai. The warriors of Gondor are loyal and brave. We need all the swords that we can muster."

Théoden could not fault his reasoning. He sighed. "Then open the gates."

The rider cantered to a stop in the area just beyond the gate. They were dressed all in black, a tunic, trousers and cloak. A long sword was strapped to their back, a round shield, embellished with the Tree of Gondor slung onto their shoulder. Lithe and muscled, despite their lack of height, they were an opposing figure. Dark hair hung down their back beneath a silver helmet, as Aragorn approached, the figure swung gracefully down from the horse, and he could see the nose piece of the helmet was also shaped as the Tree of Gondor.

Théoden stepped forward to greet the newcomer. 

"I am Théoden, King of Rohan; it is I who welcomes you here, friend, to this place of little hope."

The warrior removed their helmet. A dark haired woman with a strange beauty stood before him, her hair whipped by the wind. Her presence was both dignified and familiar. She glanced briefly at all that stared at her before replying. 

"I am Daya, daughter of Veradan, daughter by marriage to Denethor II, Steward of Gondor, and wife of Boromir."

She used the Common Speech, and she spoke her titles proudly listing them fully as protocol demanded. Aragorn recognised in her the same pride that Boromir had contained. 

It was to Aragorn to whom she now spoke, instinctively recognizing him as her husband's friend.

"I have come to claim my husband's place by your side, so that his spirit may fight for the good of Men, and his death revenged."

If Aragorn registered any surprise at her identity, he did not show it. Instead he took her hand.

"I welcome you, Daya, wife of Boromir, our departed friend. I thank you for your support, but I cannot ask you to fight here. We are outnumbered, and the force we face, are many."

She slipped effortlessly into Elvish. 

"The Army that we will fight will arrive before dark. I saw them as I rode here, and they are travelling quickly. I had only a five league lead on them. Would you accept Boromir's sword in this fight?"

"Your husband was oath sworn to us, and I would be heartened by his presence here."

"I was raised close to my husband but I am not of pure Gondorion blood. My family came from the Northern Lands, a tribe where a woman could wield a sword in her own right. I trained under the same man as Boromir, learnt the same skills as he did. I fight well, and my skills shall be tested here tonight."

Aragorn looked into the dark eyes and saw the determination in their depths. This woman would fight whether he permitted it or not. He nodded slowly.

"If you are set, then your sword is welcome here at Helm's Deep."

Théoden had remained silent for too long. "I will not have a woman fighting here tonight! We have enough men to defend the keep. She will not fight with my men."

Daya glanced coolly at the King of Rohan, before returning her stare onto Aragorn.  He nodded. 

"Then she will fight with my men."

The preparations for battle had been going on for some time, but a sense of urgency had settled over the keep. Every able bodied man was called to fight; there were few skilled warriors, but plenty of farmers. These were the men that would face the Urak-Hai tonight. They would fight to protect their country, their wives, their children and their lives. 

The shadows were drawing long as the sun sank lower in the sky. Daya watched the afternoon slip away, a sense of finality surrounding her. She closed her eyes and prayed, swearing an oath to fight well, and to die bravely. As she opened her eyes she saw a blurred image of the Tree of Gondor before her. Aragorn had taken Boromir's vambraces after his death, strapping them to his own wrists so that the Fellowship would continue, and the Captain of Gondor would not be forgotten. Daya raised a hand out to touch them, tracing the pattern with her finger, feeling the warmth radiate from them, and she was reluctant to raise her eyes, to the face that she knew was not her husband's. 

"He died bravely," Aragorn murmured to her. "Protecting two hobbits that travelled with us."

"Hobbits?" She frowned at the unfamiliar word.

"Halflings. From the north."

A memory of a sentence cried out whilst in pain. "The Little Ones."

"That was what Boromir called them."

"Are they safe?"

A dark look struck the ranger's face as he thought of the four hobbits, recalling the horrific uncertainty of knowing not where they were, or how they fared. His relief at Gandalf's reassurance that they were safe.

"Two were captured by Urak-Hai during the attack on your husband. But they escaped and we have been assured by Lord Mithrandir that they are safe. The other two escaped with the One Ring."

"My husband feared the One Ring. He called it his doom."

"Boromir was tempted by the power of the Ring. He died redeeming himself for those temptations."

"The Ring has destroyed those far stronger than my husband." She half smiled. "I would have been drawn to its power."

She gazed at him, meeting his eyes without shyness, and when she spoke she used Elvish once more.

"I know who you are, Elessar. Your identity vibrates from every cell of your body, Heir of Isildur. Boromir was troubled by your presence, but swore loyalty to you before he died. I pledge my loyalty to you as my husband did, Aragorn, Son of Arathorn." 

He did not deny her words; instead he merely nodded at her accuracy.

"I was with your husband when he died, and though I did not know it until today, your name was on his lips as he passed from this Earth. He did not speak of his marriage, or of you, he was a private man, but I am proud to have fought along side him, and I shall be proud to fight along side you, tonight, Lady."

He thought her eyes were damp, but as she stared at him, he could see she was dry eyed. "I heard him call my name. He calls for me still. I shall be reunited with him soon."

"You fear you will die tonight?" Aragorn was chilled by her words, said with a ring of prophecy, and he realised that he was in the presence of one with foresight. 

"I do not fear death." She looked away, and saw the sun was lower in the sky. "You should look to the sunrise." Her words echoed Gandalf's.

For a moment they stood in silence, and then Daya touched the vambraces once more. 

"Tell me of Boromir," she asked.

They spoke of the warrior until the sun had nearly sunk below the horizon. The enemy was coming, heralded by an enormous dust cloud, and the Earth trembled under their weight. It was time to fight.

Night had fallen, and the rain had come. Her hair plastered to her head, Daya stood on the wall, alongside Legolas and Gimli. Her sword was drawn, and she readjusted her grip on the blade, thankful for the leather strip she had bound around the hilt, giving her extra purchase on the slick metal. The Elven warriors had come, and it was Aragorn who commanded them, exhorting them to show no mercy, for they would receive none. Arrows arched over her head and she saw them strike in the ranks of the monsters that stood before them. The enemy began to fall, but the dead were instantly replaced. They used ladders to breach the fort, and suddenly the enemy were among them. Her sword blade reflected the light of the torches that struggled to stay alight amid the rain, the blade rapidly dulling with dark blood. Daya did not think, she simply used all that was taught her, ignoring the cries of agony around her, or the weight of the foul creatures as they crashed against her, she simply killed. 

The explosion, when it came, flung her off her feet. It struck the battered masonry of the Keep, and a surprised mixture of stone, men, elves and Urak-Hai was hurled into the night sky. She landed among elves, bruised and battered, her helmet lost in the fall, and as she was helped upright to her feet, she winced at the gash that graced her forehead. She shook the blood, diluted by the rain water, out of her eyes, and searched for the Fellowship among the chaos. 

They fought together, close to the main gate. With a primitive cry she carved her way through the approaching hordes, a formidable opponent, the rain soaking her, the night enveloping her. 

Almost unnoticeably the sky was getting lighter, and Daya sensed that dawn was close. Summoning her strength she gave a giant leap up onto the battlements, and saw ahead of her Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli and Théoden. She sprinted forward towards the group, but her way was blocked by the huge Urak-Hai bearing a crude blade. For a heartbeat they studied each other, oblivious to carnage around them, and then suddenly he lunged. She had lost her shield, and had to spring backwards, and to the side to avoid the wicked blade, already bringing her sword in a backhanded parry. The blades met with a damp clang, and for a moment she worried, but the sword held. They fought on. It was the first opportunity Daya had to study one of her husband's killers up close. They were a vile sight, as black as night, with burning eyes, and rotting teeth. They had been bred to be killers, they were a race of killers, and they knew nothing but the desire for death. They had killed her husband, and with a sudden certainty, Daya knew that she faced her own killer.

Her grandmother had been killed fighting Sauron's masses, and it appeared that Daya was also destined to die at the hands of her enemy. A calmness fell upon her, and with another cry she launched into a whirling onslaught, feeling her warrior blood rise within her. She would fight for Gondor. Her arms ached, the muscles in her neck had tensed up, and with every move, every meeting of blades, she grew wearier still. But she fought on, she was beating him back.

The thrust when it came was sudden, and a shock. Instantly she knew her mistake had been losing her shield. The crude blade had jabbed upwards, reaching the tender flesh of her abdomen, where it lodged. He had to twist it to free it, but before he could do so, realising that he was trapped, Daya was turning, ignoring the foreign object burning beneath her diaphragm, raising her sword up, and burying it in the brute's shoulder. His sword came free, and she nearly cleaved him in two as her weight fell behind her blade. He died with a single scream, and pulling her blade free, one arm clasped to her stomach, she ran for the trio of the Fellowship. 

Théoden had sounded the retreat into the Keep, and Daya caught up with them. As Aragorn and Gimli fought to protect the barricade she helped to keep the heavy door closed against the masses outside. Finally, Aragorn and Gimli returned, and it was decided that a gesture was needed. They would ride out, led by Théoden, into the sunrise, and inspire the men to fight. If they were to die, they would die bravely, in the sunlight, not hidden, trapped in darkness within the stone walls. Aragorn turned to Daya, who stood near a wall. She was breathing heavily, and seemed weary. He called her, and it was with great effort that she lifted her head to look at him. She took two steps, staggered, and fell.

Aragorn ran to her, she was trying to raise herself to a standing position, but could get no further than her knees. He saw the darkness glistening on her tunic, the vivid red liquid that stained her hands, and realised that she had been fighting wounded for some time. He helped her into a lying position, and tried to gauge the extent of her injury. The rent in her clothing and the amount of blood that now surrounded her, gave him little cause to be hopeful. She gripped his wrist and he gave a sudden shiver, reminded of Boromir's death. 

"The dawn. Look to the sun."

"I shall look, and so shall you." He moved a lock of hair that had fallen over her eyes.

She shook her head. "Boromir. I want you to send me to him. The river." Aragorn had told her earlier of her husband's funeral. He knew immediately what she wanted and he nodded mutely, his promise. 

"Hail, Heir of Isildur," she smiled weakly but pain turned it into a grimace. "I fear that many of Gondor's warriors shall fall before Sauron is defeated. I am not the first, and I shall not be the last. Go with honour, Aragorn."

'With honour, Daya, Warrior of Gondor." He tried to return her smile. "And tell your husband that I honour his friendship, and miss his companionship."

Daya nodded, and despite the pain he could see her unusual beauty, and her quiet dignity, and he saw why Boromir would have fallen in love with her. 

"I shall," she promised. Her eyes closed briefly as a spasm of pain tore through her, but she forced them open, trying to focus on the sun that poured through the high window. "Boromir" she whispered, and she died. 

At the sun rise Gandalf had come, and with him the Riders of Rohan, and led them to victory. The price of victory was high, many lives were lost, not least Haldir of the Elves, and Daya. Aragorn kept his word, and he placed Daya's body in a small boat, provided by Théoden. They had found the small fleet of vessels in the depths of the caves, apparently for use in escaping along the streams that ran deep in the cave. It would have been lunacy to try, but some previous ruler of Rohan had placed them there. They carried the boat to the Entwash, and Aragorn himself carried Daya. He remembered the struggle that Legolas, Gimli, and he had had in carrying Boromir's fallen body, but he carried Daya like a child in his arms. At the small stream they placed her in the base of the boat, along with her sword, and the helmet she had lost. It had been recognised by Gimli among the rubble, marked by the Tree of Gondor, and brought it back to the fallen woman. They set the boat to float upon the Entwash, and they knew the stream would lead the boat to the Great River Anduin, so that she could make the same final journey as her husband.

It was her destiny.

She would be reunited with Boromir only through death, and she had accepted that without question, without doubt.

It was her fate.


	8. In the End

He stood on the edge of the river, the grass below his feet damp with the morning dew. It was morning, the rising sun glittering on the rippling water as it flowed into the alcove. It was here his boat rested, here that he had woken. 

A forest surrounded Boromir, and edged the other bank. He stood at a curve in the river, and could see no further than half a league in either direction. He knew that he should follow the path that led into the depths of the golden forest, that he would be happy there, and at peace, but each time he took a step in that direction, he felt drawn back to the river bank. He had to wait. 

Waiting gave him time to think. He was pleased that Frodo and Sam had escaped. He hoped Merry and Pippin were safe; he had liked their easy ways. An image flickered in the back of his mind, the hobbits staring at him in horror, their cries echoing in his ears, but the thought was gone before he could focus on it. He shook his head as he thought of the Ring. He resented it, resented challenge it had set him, the power it had held over him. It was the Ring that had brought him to this place, eternal life, across the Great Sea. And still he waited. He remembered Daya, regretted leaving her, and he wished that he had had longer with her. He thought of the children they should have had together. A family. And later he would have taken his place as Steward of Gondor. He wished that he had been a stronger man. 

The sun was high above his head now, but he had no idea how long he had paced this river bank. He lifted his head and saw the boat approach. From the bank it appeared empty, but Boromir knew that this was what he waited for. Slowly it trailed along the current until it was swept into the alcove. It bumped gently against the shore, to its resting place.

He approached the small vessel. As he came closer he saw the figure lying in the base of it. She wore the same sheer blue gown as when she had first come to his chamber, the first night that they had shared together. One shoulder was bare, as were her arms and feet. The circlet he had given her reflected the sun above, her hair spread around her face, eyes closed, dark lashes pressed against her cheek. He stared at her, and she opened her eyes, and he saw the life in their depths once more. 

Boromir waded into the water, and helped her to stand, helping her to step lightly onto the river bank. He caught her in his arms, heard her laugh, and he kissed her smiling lips. The length of her body was pressed against his, and he wondered that she was so small, the top of her head resting a few inches below his chin. He could feel her warmth, and he closed his eyes. 

Suddenly he remembered the pain that had brought him here, the burning agony of the arrows, and he clenched her to him, wondering what horror she must have gone through to come here. He pushed the thoughts away once more, and he did what he never thought he would do again; he brought his lips down to his wife's. 

Finally the kiss broke, and Boromir, Son of Denethor took the hand once more of Daya, his wife, and together they entered Eternity. 

************************************

A/N: Well... my first fanfic. Up and complete. Completely and utterly twee (as my friend likes to put it) but mine, all mine! Written completely for my own selfish pleasure, and challenged to put it on her by fore-mentioned friend. There's a few points I'd like to make: (bear with me!)

a.) Daya is not a Mary Sue. She has elements of Mary Sue, yes, but as I've discovered it's very difficult to write a female character without putting elements of yourself into it. Daya can play with a sword. I can't! 

b.) The likelihood of her turning up at Helm's Deep isn't that realistic... but I wanted her to have a love for Boromir so strong that she would die to be reunited with him... Helm's Deep seemed like a good place for her to get her revenge on his killers.

c.) I didn't want to offend anyone with this. Even if you hate Mary Sue's, I hope you will see that Daya doesn't really effect the action of the novels/films. She doesn't take the place of any major character, she doesn't have an unpronounceable name, and she isn't one of Elrond's long lost daughters. She doesn't turn up at the Council, she doesn't fight the Balrog, and she doesn't stop Boromir dying just so she can go and have lots of babies with him. Ok, so she's good with a sword, but obviously not that good because she dies! She has to be a strong character, or else Boromir wouldn't have anything to do with her, you can't really imagine him with a wallflower can you? Damn... actually I can! Well, that's messed up this story. Oh, and even I don't like all 

that stuff about them as children and growing up to love each other, but it kind of took over at some points. Oh, and she's not an elf either. And she only has very slight psychic powers. She can't bloody control them. She's only human! 

d.) If you liked it, please review! If you don't like it, please review and explain why! Oh, and if you've picked up any glaring errors, continuity or historical stuff... you get the idea!


End file.
